


Ridiculousness, Amplified

by rocknrollalien



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknrollalien/pseuds/rocknrollalien
Summary: Have you ever wondered who started calling Angela "Mercy"? Where does a man in 2070-something get spurs, anyway?
This fic explores Mercy and McCree--two heroes who are way too committed to their impractical aesthetics--and their friendship. They really only make matters worse with each other, don't they? (WHO WEARS CHAPS? TO FIGHT ROBOTS?)





	1. A Story About Hats

The problem began with his hat, as many of his problems did at that age. Things only got more dramatic from there.

It was a long drive to their destination, made longer by the fact that he kept requesting that Gabriel slow down so that he could look at the cows as they rode past.

As Gabriel let up off the gas for possibly the fifteenth time on the same stretch of highway toward Gibraltar, the pretty blonde in the back seat decided to speak up for the first time. It had been almost thirty six hours on the road, and she turned her head to look at Jesse as he stared out at the cows for the very first time.

“I quite like your hat,” she said.

Jesse nearly had a heart attack.

He clutched at his chest and came quite close to jumping out of his seat in shock (the seat belt that Gabriel had sternly reminded him to buckle kept him firmly in place) when he turned to Angela with wide brown eyes. She looked faintly alarmed, and he couldn’t help but laugh. He turned back to the cows, tugging the hat over his eyes so she couldn’t quite see his expression, before speaking up.

“Mercy me, I didn’t know you spoke a lick of English,” he replied.

“My name is Angela,” she corrected him patiently. “What would make you think that I did not speak English?”

Gabriel picked up the speed, apparently determining that enough time had been spent cow-gazing, but he did not intervene in the conversation. Jesse half wished he would.

“Shoot, I don’t know. Maybe I thought you were too busy being a medical genius to pick up another language. How many do ya speak, anyway?” he asked, absolutely wishing that she’d look at the cows, or Gabriel, or her hands, or anything other than him. 

“Three,” she said matter of factly. “Swiss, German, and English of course. I’m not entirely fluent in Finnish, but I can make do in a tourist-y pinch.”

“Don’t it take some time learning doctorin’? Mercy…” This last was said as a minor exclamation. Gabriel had scolded him enough for rough language, especially around the other Overwatch agents. 

“I told you, my name is Angela,” she corrected again, this time with a little bit more annoyance in her voice. “And yes, a medical degree is time consuming. But I get bored when there is nothing new to learn, so…Languages. And some work with combat, though I still have a long way to go.”

Jesse laughed aloud when she corrected him, tipping his hat back again. Okay, even if he did feel dwarfed next to this girl’s renown, at least he wasn’t such a big dork. Yeah, whatever, English wasn’t her first language, but correcting him on something like that for the second time in a row was so remarkably silly that he couldn’t help but find that maybe this conversation wasn’t going so badly.

“Heck, if you’re going to start going out in combat, you’ll end up being the guardian angel of Overwatch. Speakin’ languages, curin’ ailments, and breakin’ hearts, am I right?” he said, now leaning forward (there weren’t any more cows to look at, anyway; Gabriel drove fast and the pastures were behind them) to look at her.

He’d have to have been blind to miss the look of intrigue on her face.

“Guardian angel? I think I like that imagery…” she said.

He laughed again; what else could he do?


	2. ♪ Jingle Jangle ♪

“Cowman,” she called from across the base.

Under normal circumstances, Jesse would not have registered that someone was talking to him. ‘Cowman’ wasn’t really a nickname of his, even under the best of times. As it was, however, it was 6 in the goddamn morning and Gabriel had just finished running him through drills and target practice. His brain was shot and all he wanted was one of those tiny cups of espresso. So he heard ‘cow,’ naturally assumed it would be followed by ‘boy,’ and glanced up at the blonde doctor who was far too perky for this time of morning.

He was only able to process what she’d actually said to him by the time he saw her waving her arms enthusiastically.

“Cowman?” he asked with a Clint Eastwood-style squint.

She paused, and pouted a bit. “I thought ‘boy’ would be, ah, dismissive? You are a bit old to be called boy, are you not?” she asked earnestly.

He ambled on over to her, wishing he’d had the time to get the tiny cup of espresso his heart had been set on before this conversation had begun, and replied simply by putting his hand on top of her head and ruffling her hair as badly as he could.

“ _Finger ab de Röschti_ ,” she said in annoyance, swatting his hands away and trying to rearrange her hair so it didn’t look like a giant cowman had just messed with it.

“I have no idea what that means,” he stated with a placid smile.

She shrugged her shoulders eloquently. He knew she wasn’t going to explain.

“I have a gift for you, Jesse,” she said, producing a smaller bag from her backpack. Why she wore a backpack at a super-hero watchpoint was beyond him, but much of Angela was beyond him.

He took it and opened it eagerly. Gabriel was a good guy, but besides snacks and guns he wasn’t a gift giver. And his old family had been gangsters, so, really not gift givers.

Little spiky circles attached to a semi-circle that looked like it could affix to a boot tumbled out of the bag, jingling as he tried to catch them. He thought they’d be smaller.

“Spurs?” he asked incredulously.

“So you can jangle as you walk! It’s a cowman thing!” she said confidently.

He felt like crying, and even felt tears welling in his eyes.

“Mercy…” he said affectionately, hooking an arm around her shoulders in an uncomfortable half-hug that cousins and other distant family members were accustomed to. 

“My name is--”

“This is the nicest goddang thing anybody’s ever gotten for me,” he said earnestly.

She laughed delightedly, and as soon as he’d finished figuring out how to attach the damn things to his boots (Impractical, Gabe said in his imagination, but Jesse didn’t care) he gave her the most affectionate noogie he’s ever given in his life. She didn’t care for it much, but laughed all the same.

When Gabriel heard Jesse heading toward the mess hall later that day, he raised an eyebrow and tried to conceal a smirk, but didn’t say a word. Jesse almost thought he heard him laughing.


	3. Birthday Wings (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter kinda got out of hand. It's considerably longer than the last two. Even still, I'm breaking it into two parts to keep it from turning into a freakin' novel.

McCree had, quite honestly, never been good at giving gifts. The situation rarely came up, but he gave what he knew how to give regularly. One look at Gabe’s kitchen could attest to this fact--there were five mugs neatly lined up, all inscribed with “World’s Best Dad.” On the first two, “dad” had been clumsily crossed out and replaced with “Boss.” The latter three didn’t seem worth the effort to make pretenses at what their relationship was. It felt like a lazy gift, given that it was the same every year, but given that every year Gabe would turn away with his eyes shining just a bit too wetly--hell, McCree felt he was doing right.

Plus, and this was surely trivial, Jesse’s consistent gifts ensured that Gabe would always have at least one more Best Dad mug than Jack, who only ever got them from Reinhardt and Ana as a joke. Jesse liked to think that it was because of this that Gabe would tear up, but he didn’t like to presume much.

So when he heard tell of Angela’s birthday coming up, and he heard the now customary jingle of his own boots, he started to sweat. Surely she didn’t want a Best Dad mug, right? She couldn’t. Best Mom didn’t suit her much either, and he didn’t want to look like he was taking a page out of young Fareeha’s book. Plus Ana would give him that sharp look that would make him shake in his boots. It had to be something special, to repay her for the spurs.

He vowed to study her, to figure out what she really liked. He knew some things already, like studying languages and the smell of hand sanitizer, but a foreign language dictionary and a thing of hand sanitizer just didn’t seem to cut it. He’d be sly and quiet, like the natural predator he was born to be.

Two days later, when he burst into her room and flopped onto her bed, he was honestly as surprised as she was.

“Mercy,” he said, for this had become an affectionate nickname between them, “What the hell do you even do with your free time? It’s all studyin’, and life savin’, and eatin’ lunch, and…”

“Do you...not eat lunch with your free time, Jesse?” she asked, looking owlishly up at him from what appeared to be blueprints sprawled across her workspace. Why, those weren’t medical texts at all. “You really ought to take care of your health. Does Gabriel know you haven’t been eating?”

He sat up, looking sharply at her.

“Shoot, I don’t know. Does Morrison know you ain’t been sleeping? What the hell is all this, anyway?” he asked, slowly getting to his feet to look at the blueprints.

“He knows,” she said, squirming guiltily in her seat. 

“What about Ana?”

She gulped. Ana didn’t know. Jesse shook his head solemnly. If Ana knew, she’d have good old Wilhelm bust down the door so that she could put a dart in Angie’s neck.

“Mercy, you know you’re a damn important part of the team, doncha?” he asked, uncharacteristically serious. “If you ain’t sleeping, you start slipping up, and we all start dyin’.” He paused, and cracked a grin. “Not to get too serious on ya all of a sudden.”

She dragged her hands across her face, leaning her elbows on the desktop and looking as though she might either cry or laugh. He started to wonder if calling in Ana wasn’t such a bad idea after all, if this was the state Mercy was in. Boy, he was bad at stealth and reconnaissance. 

“Don’t you see? I’m staying up so I can help everyone! What is the point of being a medic if I can’t help those in the field directly? Even if I wear armor and wield a gun, as tasteless as that is to me, if I can’t get there in time, how am I meant to save even a single life?” She ended her sentence with a quiet sob, and buried her head in her hands. 

McCree didn’t know what to say. He reached out a hand to pat her back awkwardly, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. In fact, she wasn’t moving much at all. He crouched down to get a look at her face, but before he could arrive at any conclusions, she tipped over in her chair and slumped to the floor. He looked on with alarm until tiny snores escaped her.

He sighed, shaking his head at her antics. She was so young to be working herself until passing out, but...hell, so were the rest of them. Except Reinhardt. What the hell was he even doing with the rest of them? But that was a question for another day. 

In the meantime, he scooped the doctor up in his arms and deposited her on the bed. He thought about tucking her in, but shrugged. If he did that, then she’d wake up, and then he couldn’t execute his plan.

“Why, I’m a sly fella after all,” he told himself as he rolled up the blueprints Angela had been torturing herself over and sauntered out of her dorm. This was easier than he thought it’d be.

He made it almost all the way to the labs when Lena accosted him.

“Whazzat?” she asked, bouncing and whizzing around him as he ambled casually. He knew that he wouldn’t run into her, so he didn’t bother slowing down or speeding up. Sometimes she’d literally teleport to be directly in his path, but that didn’t stop him in the slightest. You got used to such things. “I didn’t fancy you as much of a blueprint man! Who’s it for? Is it for me? Is it for Winston? You’re headin’ right to Winston, are you givin’ him a gift! McCree! That’s so sweet! I didn’t know you gave anyone but Reyes pretty presents! Can I have one?”

“Why don’t you slow yourself down a tic,” he said, a smile growing on his face. “I might even tell ya if you shush yourself, now.”

She zipped ahead and sat atop a loading crate, cross legged and attentive as ever. “Mum’s the word, luv!” she chirped.

He chuckled, and made his way over to her so that he could show her the blueprints. He unfurled them, and he and Lena looked at them closely. Together, both of their faces took on a blank expression. 

“Why, that’s just a lot of science mumbo jumbo,” Lena said. She sounded disappointed, but didn’t show it.

“I reckon you’re right,” he said slowly, squinting at it. He looked to the next page.

“Who’d ya steal that from, anyway?” she asked, tilting her head to the side as she looked at him like a particularly inquisitive bird.

“Mercy,” he replied, apparently unphased that she should assume he stole it. It _was_ kindof his thing, after all. “I don’t rightly know what any of this means, but it sure as heck seemed important.”

“Mercy…? Oh! You mean Angie! That’s adorable, I didn’t know you called her that! It’s her birthday soon, innit? She’ll just love this! Whatever it is!” She clapped her hands together enthusiastically, and promptly zipped away.

She was gone before he could even blink.

“Don’t go tellin’ her about this!” he hollered after her, but there was no real way to know if Lena heard. 

He sighed, shaking his head at her antics, and made his way all the way to Winston’s lab. He slapped the blueprints onto Winston’s work bench victoriously.

Winston looked up at him, blinking from behind his glasses, and McCree got the distinct impression that he’d been sleeping not that long ago. Athena hadn’t stopped him from entering, so he could only assume that the gorilla had just awoken from a nap. Apparently everybody was getting better sleep than Angela these days. Well, he’d just have to change that.

“McCree,” Winston greeted him. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m gonna need you to use that fancy monkey brain of yours to translate this for me,” he said, leaning against the table.

Winston glanced down at it--no more than that, a glance--before looking back up at McCree. 

“Um.” Winston always was eloquent.

“I ain’t a scientist but I know that it doesn’t say ‘um,’ Winston,” McCree said.

“It’s a flight suit,” he said, not even bothering to look down at it. “It’s not finished, of course, as it seems to lack a real source of propulsion. Are you, um, wanting to fly around, McCree?”

McCree wiped his hand across his face. “Do I look like I’m gonna start flappin’ my wings and flyin’?”

“Well, no. But the suit doesn’t have wings. It looks like it’d be pretty unstable, actually. Where did you get this?” Winston asked, picking up the papers and shuffling through them, actually taking the time to get a closer look. 

McCree started to scoff again, but stopped himself. His face lit up and he grabbed Winston by the shoulder, startling him into dropping the papers again.

“Say, wings!” he exclaimed.

“Wings…?” Winston repeated.

“Wings! Winston, you gotta help me out here!”

Winston squinted at McCree, and then squinted down at the blueprints again. “Is this for Reyes? He’s been complaining about a lack of mobility but wings don’t really suit his, er, aesthetic…”

“Aesthetic!” McCree cried out enthusiastically. He took off his hat and slapped it against his leg, for lack of a better expression of enthusiasm. “Winston, I’m gonna need you to figure out a way to stabilize the propulsion system on this thingamajigger for me. Something sleek-like, you hear?”

Winston adjusted his glasses and looked again.

“Well with what’s already here, that shouldn’t be too hard. It’s already got a way to anchor onto other people so that much propulsion isn’t all that difficult…”

“See? Do you know how hard it is for my pride to be outsmarted by a goshdarn monkey? You take to this like a catfish to water, Winston!”

He spun on his heel and began to stomp out of the room, each step jangling more aggressively than the last.

He heard Winston’s voice chasing him as he left the room, but all he could make out was, “I’m not a monkey!”

It didn’t matter; he had other things to attend to. Aesthetically driven things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is liking this so far! I hope I don't run out of steam on this, but given that it's more necessarily plot driven, it shouldn't be much of a problem. I'd always like encouragement, though! <3


	4. Birthday Wings (Part Two)

“Jesse, it’s almost midnight,” Gabe said, leaning against the door of his dorm. It wasn’t much bigger or nicer than the rest of them, barring Jack’s deluxe arrangements, but Gabriel rarely let people snoop around inside.

“Yeah, and you’re fully dressed and ready for the ball, ain’t ya?” Jesse said, pushing past his mentor to sit comfortably on the bed. The room was kept mostly secret from prying eyes not for any nefarious reasons--that is, unless you considered sewing to be particularly evil spirited--but to protect Gabriel’s precious privacy. 

The room was messier than most people would expect, given that Gabriel tried his darndest to put off a commanding and orderly vibe. Swaths of cloth, dressforms, and a sewing machine that looked fancy enough that Vishkar could have made it decorated his workspace. On the walls were various blueprints and posters. One, in particular, always caught Jesse’s eye: The Phantom of the Opera, 2068. It was a poster for an old play, and nobody was quite certain if it was up simply because Reyes admired the play or if he’d perhaps had a hand in its performance.

“What’s up, hijo?” Gabriel asked as he closed the door behind Jesse. He crossed his arms, and to an unstudied bystander it would appear that he was angry. Jesse knew better. That was his concerned face.

“I need a favor,” Jesse said, grinning wide as he pushed back his hat to see Gabriel better.

“Oh? Was me saving you from a life of crime and/or prison not enough?” He looked amused.

Jesse guffawed. “Nosirree, I do not believe that was enough. Plus, I reckon that was years ago and we gotta freshen up the amount of favors done between the two of us.”

“Who’s the favor for, Jesse?”

“Mer--Doc Zeigler, Morrison’s pet,” Jesse said honestly. There was no point in attempting to keep a lie from Gabriel.

“Ah, her birthday’s coming up, no?”

Jesse nodded.

“Still not sure how this concerns me.”

Jesse’s smile only grew. “I’m gonna give her some wings,” he explained.

“Don’t go killing birds for girls, Jesse. It’s weird.” He was rifling through his bookcase as he said this, apparently unperturbed. 

“Naw,” Jesse said. Though...No, that would be silly. No birds for Mercy. “She wants a high-mobility suit to help her use them Caduceus Staffs on people in the field. I sent the blueprints for the suit itself to Winston, and he’s gonna figure out the propulsion, but she needs some flair, doncha think?”

“...wings,” Gabriel repeated, not looking up from the book he’d selected.

“I’m thinkin’ somethin’ that glows real bright. I want her to drop down on allies and have ‘em thinkin’ ‘My god, I’ve died and gone up to Heaven,’ except she’s keepin’ ‘em alive and well. Angel of Mercy like, understand?”

Gabriel set the book on his desk and started tidying.

“Captain?” Jesse asked, standing up to get a better look at what he was doing. Had Gabriel heard him? Should he say that whole spiel again? He could, if he had to, but--

Gabriel touched the intercom on his desk. “Winston, when you get a minute I’d like to see those blueprints my damn fool ward gave you. Looks like we’re collaborating.”

Jesse could have sworn he heard Winston laugh. “Angela will be delighted.”

Gabriel cleared off his desk and began sketching while Jesse peeked over his shoulder.

“Hey, boss?” he asked.

“Mmh?” Gabriel grunted.

“D’ya think you could put a halo on it?”

It only took them about a week to put it all together--Winston claimed that the majority of the work had been done by Angela herself, prompting Jesse to muse if there were anything she were truly bad at--but it was another five days until her birthday actually arrived. Jesse was able to return the blueprints back to the good doctor before she noticed they were gone, and with the help of some “Sleepy-Time” tea that Reinhardt had gladly donated to the cause, she was sleeping easier already.

So the only thing to wait on was her birthday itself. He’d badgered Gabriel into making enough changes to make it look _just right_ , even if Gabriel had muttered about cowboy fashion and pinched the bridge of his nose before adding the details on a few occasions, and Winston had made the design stable and ready to go. Jesse wanted to wrap it, but the only wrapping paper in the base was Hanukkah themed and he felt that didn’t quite suit the occasion.

The days ticked by slowly, but she was sleeping, and he was ready.

He practically kicked in her door at 6 in the morning, knowing that she was already awake, dragging in the suit behind him. If he’d had a trumpet and known how to play it, he would’ve trumpeted. As it was, he just kinda yelled. He got so excited he rather forgot any words, and propped up the suit before her.

It was white, armored--albeit lightly to allow for mobility--and had wings. He pressed a button and they unfurled and began to glow gold.

“McCree…” she gasped.

“The, er, halo’s for head protection,” he said, suddenly nervous about her reaction.

“No it’s not! It’s beautiful!” she said, springing to her feet in delight. She walked around it in a circle, her eyes bright and her face practically glowing. “The white...the gold...oh, Jesse, the halo! You know me so well! This looks so good!”

He tipped his hat forward, covering his eyes meekly. “Aw, shoot, it’s nothin’ special…”

She grabbed him by the shoulders, knocking his hat back as she shook him slightly.

“It’s amazing. I’m going to look splendid! I’m going to fly.” She laughed and spun around again before turning back to the suit. “I’ll need to alter my gun to match it, though…”

“Mercy, that’s easy,” he said enthusiastically. “Just slap a li’l halo on that fella and you’ll be matchy-matchy!”

“Why, then you’ll need a spur on your pistol as well! Won’t that just be charming?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't turn out as nicely as I'd planned, but hopefully everyone likes it! It might be a tic before the next few chapters come out as I was particularly motivated to finish this small arc before I moved on to anything else, but I do have lots of ideas for more chapters so stay tuned!
> 
> Thanks to my friend Rose for helping me get Gabe's characterization right!


	5. Guardian Angel

Shock can be a hell of a drug, McCree had discovered over time. Shock, with adrenaline, with a bit of caffeine jitters, and the fact that he hadn’t slept much the week beforehand--well, it certainly held a candle to some of the recreational shit the kids tried to peddle here and there. Back in the Deadlock days, he was sure he’d tried to get his hands on some of the ridiculous shit people would sell to get you to escape yourself.

But now, here he was, his head swimming and his gun empty, further from himself than he ever had been. He was faintly aware of the smell of blood, and as soon as he tried to focus on where it might be coming from, it was overpowering to him. He needed to...He needed to…

He fell to his knees and started to retch. His gun tumbled from his hands, and he wondered how that had happened. Somehow even his own vomit seemed abstract to him. Why was he having such a hard time propping himself up…?

“...sse!”

That was certainly someone’s voice, but the pain somewhere to his left was really claiming a lot of his attention. He wondered if they were talking to him.

He felt the rumble of a huge omnic rolling over the earth. He knew that if he looked up, he’d see it mowing down its own fallen allies, and perhaps some of his own. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for Reinhardt’s shield. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a gun that shot more than six rounds. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a pillow. He was so tired, now, and the smell of blood was only growing stronger.

“Jesse!”

A face--Gabe’s face-- swam into focus in front of him, and grabbed his good shoulder (when had the other one become bad?) to drag him back to the transport. Jesse was aware now that he was bleeding quite profusely.

He was on the verge of passing out when something warm flooded his system. Funny, he didn’t reckon he remembered drinking any coffee--his whole body was tingling and his head slowly began to clear nonetheless. Unfortunately, a clear head meant that he could actually feel all that pain coursing through him.

“God _damn_ ,” he managed through gritted teeth. He wanted to swear more, but he was certain that if he opened his mouth, all he’d manage would be a pathetic whimper. He looked to see what the source of his pain was, and found nothing. “Shee-it,” he said. That was the problem. There was a rather conspicuous lack of forearm where there had definitely once been the appropriate amount of arm. In its place was a lot of blood that Gabe was trying to keep inside him with what looked to be a bandana.

But the pain was easing even as it came, and that sense of peculiar warmth had yet to abandon him. He moved--slowly, so slowly--to look at who might be causing this, and saw only a flash of wings before he started chuckling. It was a low chuckle, brought on partially by hysteria, but there he was, laughing as the transport rattled and moved them away from the action.

“Oh? That’s a side effect I haven’t seen yet,” Mercy said, leaning in with concern. Her hand found his sweaty forehead, checking his temperature, but he batted her away.

“It ain’t a side effect,” he growled. “You just gotta have some perspective, y’see.” He coughed, and it tasted like bile. “I look to see half my arm’s gone and got itself blasted to smithereens and when I glance up, all I can see is...well…” He fluttered the fingers on the hand he had left. “A goddamn angel.”

Mercy laughed, but Gabe flicked him gently on the forehead.

“She saved your life, kid. Play nice,” Gabriel said, but his smile spelled relief.

“Shoot, nice is all I know how to play. And Poker. I play nice and I play Poker,” Jesse said, and he felt himself on the verge of babbling. He laughed again, and it turned into a cough. “Hell, Reyes, what am I about to do without a left arm?”

“Hey now, don’t worry so much. You’re gonna be alright.” His voice was soft, and with the gentle warmth of the healing beam from Mercy’s staff, Jesse was willing to nod along. Maybe he was going to be--

He laughed--something between a snort and a chortle--and opened his eyes to see the baffled expressions of Gabe and Mercy.

“I reckon I’ll be all-right from now on,” he said, tears leaking from his face.

“The poor thing must be exhausted,” Mercy said, looking suitably concerned.

“I’m sure that’ll be his excuse once he’s realized how bad that joke was,” Gabriel agreed, but his huff was somehow eerily similar to a suppressed laugh. “That’s one for Morrison’s joke book, _hijo_.”

xx

“So...just your typical prosthetic, is it?” Mercy asked, now in a lab coat rather than a flightsuit, looking over the specifications of McCree’s prosthesis. She looked somehow dissatisfied.

Jesse sat in the chair in her office. In the previous weeks and months, he’d been working with a basic stand in prosthetic arm so he could get used to the sensation and mobility issues that came along with missing an arm from below the elbow, but it was time to get access to what the smartest doctors in the world could give him.

“Well, I was thinkin’ that skull along there would look purdy neat,” he drawled, looking up at her.

“Yes, I suppose. It’s not even a cow skull, though,” Mercy argued. “And your hand here is just...I mean, it’s a perfectly serviceable hand, but…”

“But what?” he demanded, raising an eyebrow.

“I pictured something with more flair. Like a gun!”

“I’m gonna repeat what you just said there. I wanna make sure gettin’ my arm shot clear off didn’t somehow mess with my hearin’, because I coulda sworn to God that you just told me I ought to have a pistol for my hand.” He leaned forward, but tipped his hat back so he could squint up at her and she could see exactly the expression of cowboy-incredulity on his face--it was like normal incredulity, but squintier and with a cowboy hat.

“Well,” she argued, crossing her arms. “I thought it would suit your aesthetic, don’t you?”

Genji Shimada, a newer addition to the team, apparently sidled close enough by the room to overhear the conversation. He leaned cockily against the doorframe and peered in--or at least, that’s what Jesse assumed he was doing. It was a bit hard to tell without being able to see his eyes.

“Funny. Doctor Zeigler failed to offer me any aesthetically pleasing upgrades,” he said.

“Count yerself lucky, pardner. She’s tryin’ to make me look like Torbjorn Junior over here. A gun for a hand, I swear--” He shook his head disbelievingly. “You’d end up with a goddamn dragon for a head if you weren’t careful.”

It was hard to determine exactly what face Genji might be making behind that mask and visor, but his body language indicated that he might actually take a shine to a dragon head. Jesse looked appalled.

“Ungrateful, both of you!” Angela scolded. “I had to learn kanji to write that little ditty on your chest, you know! ‘God of War’! Pff, ridiculous is what that is!”

“Doctor, am I not mistaken in saying that perhaps you are the ridiculous one?” Angela bristled, but Genji continued on. He must’ve had his eyes closed. “You do, after all, wear golden wings and a halo into the battlefield--”

Before she could really lay into him, Jesse stood.

“Both of y’all need to listen. I picked out a real nice skull I’d like on my hand, and that’s more or less final. Unless either of you is a concept artist who can show me a better skull, why don’t you--” he pointed at Angela, “get to makin’ me a functionin’ piece of arm and you--” he jerked a thumb at Genji, “git!”

“Git?” Genji repeated, his head tilting to the side.

“As in git goin’, Jake Long! Ain’t no room for American Dragons in Mercy’s office, now is there?” He jerked his thumb authoritatively toward the door.

“I am not--” Genji began a polite correction in regards to his nationality, but was interrupted by Tracer whizzing into the office.

“Oi, pardon me!” she chirped, taking a sudden seat atop Angela’s work table. “I just happened to overhear that McCree’s picking out his prosthetics! I think you should go big with an American flag! Maybe a really nice decal of tea in a harbor, yeah? I drew a picture, what d’ya think?”

She slapped down a napkin that seemed to feature a mild mustard stain and a crudely drawn picture of stick figures throwing boxes of something--presumably tea--into a body of water--presumably a harbor. He looked at the drawing long and hard before turning back to her with a long-suffering sigh and a squint that could pierce metal.

“Oh I quite like this, Miss Oxton,” Genji said, taking it from McCree’s hand.

Jesse sat back down in his chair and dragged his hands over his face. What a cruel twist of fate that he, Jesse McCree, should be the least silly person in the room. It was just fundamentally wrong somehow. Next, he imagined, Reinhardt would come in suggesting a lion to be put on the arm.

Sure enough, there was another voice at the doorway before long.

“Nice skull, Jesse,” Gabriel said, sipping some coffee from a mug.

“Thankee kindly,” Jesse said, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m glad someone has the taste to appreciate it.”

“What about owls, though? Owls are tough.” Gabriel sipped his coffee carefully. “Scary, too. Even look a bit like skulls.”

Mercy laughed, clapping her hands together. “I told you, Jesse! The skull is too plain! Not to mention it, well--”

“It looks like clip art, doncha think, luv?” Tracer said, suddenly behind Mercy’s shoulder in order to look at the picture drawn on the specifications. “Didja just copy that from somebody’s Powerpoint?”

“Aw, bless your heart,” he said, snatching the picture away from her. Gabriel began to laugh--a soft wheezing type of thing that could be easily mistaken for wind--and Jesse shot him a sharp look. Lena just looked confused.

“Thank...you…?” she said tentatively, tilting her head to the side and squinting.

“You’re damn welcome, that’s what you are,” he grumbled, and tried to stalk out of the room.

Angela followed him, trying to subdue her own giggles as she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. The others in the room scattered, leaving the two of them. Gabriel was the last to go, smiling gently at Jesse before he wandered away. Jesse was ready to full on pout, but he kept it together.

“I like the skull,” she said, gently taking the papers away from him. “In fact, I think it’ll mesh suitably with the rest of your outfit. Not everything can have BAMF written on it from the get-go, yes? I’ll make this.”

Jesse took a deep breath to calm himself, and smiled.

“Thankee kindly, Mercy,” he said, brushing off her arm. “You know what they say--yer my goddamn guardian angel, ain’tcha?”

“I certainly hope to be! Allow me to get started on this work.” She turned away, but he knew she was smiling. Only a dork like her would be quite so enthusiastic about being called a guardian angel. Ridiculous. What a champ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this mess--I tried for angst, and that didn't really go over. Ended up sillier than even I expected. Anyway, I hope you like it! If you have any ideas for other little tidbits I could include or that you would like to see, feel free to comment and let me know! This is a fun and stress free thing to write, so I don't mind prolonging it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo boy this is gonna be a multichaptered fic if only because I keep getting ideas for it. The chapters are gonna be pretty short most of the time, and somewhat disconnected. This isn't meant to be read as shippy, really, since nobody in Overwatch is straight, but if you want to ship it then hell I ain't gonna stop you.
> 
> Credit to my friend Rose for helping me figure out how people form the south talk.


End file.
